Staunenswerte Gnade
by Arquenniel
Summary: The only thing that can fix Marie Helena Kreutz's mangled life is a shattered man's quest to recover his own. Bourne Identity Marie's POV.
1. prologue

**A/N: **Hello! After watching The Bourne Identity, I wanted to write it from Marie's POV - and that is what this story hopefully will be. If you have time, please tell me if this kind of story interests you! Thanks!

'Staunenswerte Gnade' is German for 'Amazing Grace.'

Disclaimer: I don't own The Bourne Identity or any of its characters.

* * *

**Prologue**

Hey, you know what? It's possible to swear in your head like twenty times in ten seconds. Who would've known? Not me, until I did it for two minutes straight.

I marched toward my car, which looked small and dull despite its red paint. All was quiet except for wailing sirens in the distance and a few insane birds chirping above. The world was flaunting its indifference for me. Giving me the silent treatment. I crunched up to my car, wishing I could feel my toes and fingers and ears. If I got inside, I could crank up the heat and fix that, at least.

I ripped my bag over my head and slammed it onto the bonnet, digging in the front pocket for my keys. Then I saw the little white slip of paper tucked under the right windscreen wiper. I yanked it free, my breath puffing white in front of my face.

"_Scheiße_!"

It was a parking ticket - _Eine Knöllchen. _But I hadn't even obstructed the alleyway; I'd been careful to park to the side!

I crumpled it and threw it on the ground. Then my bag plopped to the snowy asphalt. I knelt and shoved my hand into the pocket again, digging furiously for my keys. For just an instant, I couldn't find them. And for that horrible instant, I imagined my keys lying on the floor of the US Embassy, lost when I was busy shoving all that useless paper _kack_ into my bag. No, no, no, no, no…I'd have to wait in line again…this could not happen to me! Not after everything else-

The first things I saw were his shoes. Dark, nondescript - _filthy_.

I didn't believe my eyes, but a second glance showed that yes, there was a random man standing ten feet away with a red bag over his shoulder, staring at me.


	2. Ketchup and Mustard Head

**A/N: **This update is ridiculously late. Sorry! Thanks to master of time, PropernameSurname, Manwathiel, Calathiel of Mirkwood, and Clouded Horizon for your reviews! They mean more than I can say.

Master of Time: I have seen both Supremacy and Ultimatum - but thanks for your discretion!!! :D

Disclaimer: I do not own the Bourne Identity.

* * *

**Ketchup and Mustard Head**

We gotta rewind. Like maybe you want to know _where_ the hell this is happening. Two nasty words: Zürich, Switzerland.

You should get comfy. Or maybe skip ahead; I would. I've always been an impatient reader. _Dante's Inferno_? Yeah, I hopped off that train before we got to the fifth ring of Hell, or was it the ninth?

Anyway. Ever wonder why so many people put their money in Swiss banks? I can tell you. Money is safe in a Swiss bank because any bank robber would freeze solid like a miserable arctic rock before he could get to any of that money. In the winter, at least.

See, in the winter, God puts Zürich in his deep freezer and locks the door. The entire city just shivers under snow that never stops falling from the dim gray sky. I am not lying about the snow. I've lost count of the million times I've scraped the snow off of my poor old Mini. Any day now, I expect to scrape the windscreen and like end up with my hand inside my car, the glass scraped away before it could say _Auf Wiedersehen_.

My car does not like the cold; her engine sputters and her entire frame shakes. Like me she craves warmth, the sea. Biarritz was all those things. But Biarritz took all my money and exiled us to this city, this hole carved into an ice cube.

I knew one thing: We needed to leave Zürich. Jobs were bad and the living was worse. I had decided to go to America. Land of opportunity and all that – mostly, it wasn't Europe. I wanted to drive on the other side of the road for a change, eat a hamburger in its native land – just…just go somewhere completely alien and strange. Not sure what I thought it would do for me.

I had been working on getting a visa from the American embassy. I'd also applied for a green card, even though I wasn't actually in America…which is against the rules…but I'd done it before. I guess I was stupid and thought that maybe the Americans would just work with me – but why would they? _Scheiße_, Maria, just because they all have good teeth doesn't mean they're Fairy Godmothers who give you whatever you need.

You may not give a heck, but for a long time I've suspected the universe has made a hobby out of dumping _scheiße_ on me. My father is dead, my mother disappeared before I was old enough to memorize her face, and the only family I have is a brother in Paris and a grandma in Hannover. He's always out of work; she chain smokes. Also, her accent is getting thicker as she ages. Like I can hardly understand her over the phone. We three hung together a lot when I was younger, but then we got older and wandered off in separate directions.

Wandering is my life. This is good because it makes it easy to leave bad memories behind, you know?

Anyway. The visa wasn't coming. My money was going away faster than my car gulps petrol. For four weeks I waited. Nothing changed except I really, _really _began to realize I was going to lose my apartment. So, gathering up my paperwork, I took a damp bus to 101 Dufourstrasse Street to do battle at the embassy.

The first thing I saw was this massive, _endless_ line in front of the sign reading _Non-US Citizens_. Wishing I had a fur coat like so many other people instead of a leather jacket picked up from a secondhand store in Genève, I walked down the sidewalk crunchy with salt and ice and took my place at the line's end. Then I worked on staying warm, breathing the harsh exhaust of the cars chugging past.

If you're a girl you'll understand this: You know how it is when you and your date go to the bathroom during intermission? You get stuck in the line to the Ladies' while your date is in and out of the Men's in three minutes. You feel so unlucky to be who you are. That is how I felt. Except I was standing in zero-degree air.

Sometimes I wish I had learned Fahrenheit. Everything must seem warmer in Fahrenheit.

That first day, I couldn't even get inside the embassy. I stormed back to my apartment and when I arrived I had to avoid the angry gray eyes of Mr. Oberbalm, the owner of the building. He hates it when people don't pay rent exactly on time.

He didn't know I had nothing to give him. Yet.

The second day, I waited at the embassy again, this time with those little warmers you squeeze and put into your mittens. And again, I could not reach that _verdammt_ doorway. When I returned, I had a letter from Mr. Oberbalm telling me to have my things out by ten the next morning.

I'd never been thrown out so fast. Others gave me two days, at least. I marched to Mr. Oberbalm's apartment, hungry and ready to fight tooth and nail. I slumped back to my apartment five minutes later, ears ringing. Changing his mind was impossible.

I'd left only the bathroom light on. I crumpled the eviction notice and threw it into the bathroom trash.

I stood there in my bathroom with its harshly blue fluorescent light, the sink with its rusty drain on my left, the bedroom windows behind me uncovered and revealing a glowing snowfall. I couldn't move.

Finally, I began to pack my things, mostly because my feet had started to fall asleep. That's when the tears came, sliding down my cheeks even as I brushed them away and breathed deeply to dry out the tight sobs in my throat.

_There's Marie, being run out of town again. Those Kreutzes never had it together and never will._

I blew my nose on toilet paper, pissed off at myself. It didn't take long to pack and soon after, I ate some canned beans and lay down. Don't remember much else.

* * *

The next morning, I woke up early enough to take a long shower. A really long, hot one. Then I pinned my hair back, put on makeup, and wore heavy leggings so I could wear a long skirt. I knew looking nice would be the only good thing of the day. I was in a rare mood to fight for good things. If that makes any sense.

Mrs. Billens, the widow next door who always smells like sour milk, helped me pack my things into my car the next morning. She hugged me and gave me more hand-warmers. These warmers were ancient and would probably ignite my gloves or something.

I drove back to the embassy. It is a tall building, gray and grumpy. I parked in a alley, plugged my engine heater into an available outlet, and then rushed to the Non-US line. It was shorter today. That was good because I felt ready to shove everyone aside. Were any of them homeless? They all probably had a place to sleep. The helpless feeling was coming again. That feeling you get when someone is pulling something precious out of your hands and even though you're using all your strength to keep it, you know you will lose it.

Finally, the warmth of the marble lobby embraced me. It was crowded with stressed people, the haphazard lines the only defense against complete chaos. Somewhere, a phone was ringing. Nobody picked it up.

The man I got to talk to had blue eyes and a tired face. I laid out my papers, and, talking in a properly hushed voice, outlined what I needed in English. Two minutes later, I lost control. He couldn't give me what I needed in time. He didn't understand, this little man behind his marble counter, who probably had a little lunch in a fridge in an employees' lounge.

"No," I exclaimed desperately, abandoning quiet-talk. "Excuse me. No." I held up the paper with my apartment address on it. "This is not my current address, okay? This _was_ my current address until two days ago, when I started standing in line outside!" I gestured to the door. "Now, I lose my apartment, okay? That means no address, no phone, no money, no _time_. And I still have no visa!"

"Miss Kreutz, I'm gonna have to ask you to keep your voice down," he said.

"Excuse me," I tried to lower my voice, "but, I mean, where is the guy I talked to last week?" I threw up my hands. "Every week it's a new person! How am I supposed to-"

"I don't know who you saw last week." His brows were raised defensively.

"Well, let me help you." I dove into my pile of papers. "I'm sure I have it. Hang on…"

"Could I have your attention for a moment, please?" he demanded.

I found a signature and held it up. "It's right here. Look at it."

He didn't. "Miss Kreutz, you staged an effort to circumvent the immigration laws of the United States."

I _would_ get the goggle-eyed prick who clung to the rules like a baby. "This is a student visa now. It's not about a green card any more. It's completely different!"

"It's not a menu, Miss Kreutz," he said impatiently. "You don't just pick what you want."

"I brought all this proof!" I spread my hands over the papers. "I am sorry if I have broken your rules, okay? Please isn't there a way I can-"

"You are going to have to wait," he said shortly.

"But isn't there someone I can talk to? There must be something-"

"I'm sorry, Miss Kreutz." He gazed at me flatly. "You have to follow the rules like everyone else."

"_Everyone else_. If I don't get this, I have nowhere – I can do noth-" If I could have killed him by giving him a million paper cuts, I would have. Only pride kept me from blabbing my entire situation and I ended up sputtering worse than Eamon my ex did when I found out I had spilled mustard on his leather car seats.

The prick sighed. "I can't help you."

I gathered up my papers with shaking hands, stuffing them into my faux leather folder. I couldn't look at him because now tears were coming and I just needed to get _out_ before I made more of a mess. Bending to swoop up two papers that had fallen on the floor, I shoved everything into my messenger bag and hurried out of the building.

Outside, policemen were standing around, the lights flashing on their parked cars. I froze for an instant. Had they come for me?

No. Other than a few interested glances, they ignored me. I don't understand why anyone would be interested in me. My eyes are small; my nose is too big; I haven't slept well; my hair is a mess of different highlights and dyes, brown mixed with reds and blatant yellows. The last time my stepbrother Martin saw me, he called me 'ketchup and mustard head.' That _is_ interesting, in a _bad_ way.

I moved away. Snowflakes danced through the air in slow motion. Heels clicked on sidewalk. The austere buildings lining the slick road made me feel like I was stranded outside a walled city.

A block away, I leaned against the side of an expensive furrier, breathing deeply and swallowing hard. All I had was ten euros. Ten.

_Make a plan. Now is when you make a plan._

Where could I go? Martin? Eamon, my ex? Grandma? The guys were in France and my grandma in Hannover. How would I get either of those places? I probably did have enough petrol… What could I do? Any ridiculous idea you can think of, I was there. Except for robbing a bank, of course.

Ha.

"_Scheiße_," I whispered thickly. That word became a mantra as I strode down the sidewalk. Behind me, I heard a faint alarm go off. Glancing back, I saw uniformed Americans herding everyone away from the US Embassy. People seemed scared, and I could hear faint screaming.

It was probably just a drill. Americans were always so dramatic.

* * *

That was ten minutes ago.

Now I was pinned for one long minute by the eyes of a man I had never seen before.

"What are you looking at?" I snapped, quickly coming to my feet. I plopped my purse back onto the hood.

He hesitantly jutted a thumb toward the Embassy behind him. "I heard you inside." His accent was American.

"What?" I stared at him, shocked and embarrassed.

"The consulate; I heard you talking. I thought that maybe…" he gestured between us, "we could help each other."

I sized him up. He looked my age, twenty-three or so. Medium height. Built like a wrestler and a swimmer put together. Short, almost boyish hair made him look like a young soldier, and he had steady, dark eyes.

"How's that?" I asked. He was wearing a puce sweater, in _this_ weather. Idiot American.

"You need money. I need a ride out of here."

I considered, if you could call it that. What was there to consider? Hello Marie, the man _listened_ to you in the embassy. What kind of a person does that? The back of my neck prickled; I gathered up my purse. "I'm not running a car service just now, thank you." I swiftly moved around the car, putting it between us.

"I'll give you ten thousand dollars to drive me to Paris." He was moving sideways, pulling the bag from his shoulder.

I peered at him incredulously while hurriedly pulling the folder out of my bag. "_Was, denkst du ich bin ein Narr?_ _"_ I muttered. _What, do you think I'm a fool?_

"_Du wärst ein Narr es nicht zu nehmen,_" he retorted. _You'd be a fool not to take it._

My head jerked up at his fluent German. My gaze fastened on the fat pile of cash he held in his right hand. At least, it looked like cash.

"What is this?" I shrugged my shoulders, glad for the car between us. "A joke, some kind of scam?"

"No, it's no scam," he said, voice friendly. Then he chucked the money at me. He had good aim; it hit hard me on the shoulder. I caught it and felt its weight, all the bills bound together with a red band. From a distance I heard him continue: "And I'll give you another ten when we get there."

Twenty grand. I swore softly, unable to pull my eyes from the man printed on the bills in my hand. _Benjamin Franklin_, it said beneath his portrait.

A piercing siren wailed at the end of the alley and I saw lights flash out of the corner of my eye. The strange man quickly turned his back to the lights, fist coming to his mouth in a reflexive motion.

I looked at the street, and then at him. He was shifting uncomfortably forward.

"That for you?" I asked softly.

"Look." His voice was not so friendly. "You drive, I pay; it's that simple." He moved closer, urgent tightness in his wide shoulders.

Great. He _was_ a psycho or something. I looked at him. I looked at the delicious money. Then I looked away, swearing again. "I've got enough trouble, okay?" I gave him a sickly smile, wondering if he'd pull out a gun or something else criminal-like.

A pause.

"Okay," he said. He reached out, moving closer. "Can I have my money back?"

I've heard lots of mean things about my family. There was always plenty of opportunity to pick at us. The most common name we were called is _dummkopfs_-fools.

I stroked that money, feeling the edge of each bill rasp against my thumb pad. And then I looked into those steady eyes. They were blue.

Three minutes later, he was sitting beside me in my car and I was breathing his scent, wet wool and a slight fishiness, as I drove us northwest toward Paris, France.

I would prove all those name-callers wrong.

Just not now.

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. I Talk Like This When I'm Nervous

**A/N:** Thank you to PropernameSurname, Traveler of Worlds, and Calathiel of Mirkwood for your reviews!! Also, I want to thank those who simply visited. Your time means a lot to me.

I do not own The Bourne Identity.

* * *

**I Talk Like This When I'm Nervous**

So, of course I was doubtful of the safety of the situation. But I figured that we'd exchange names and get chatting, and then things would feel better. But oh was stupid Marie Kreutz in for a surprise.

My passenger surveyed the scenery with wide, alert eyes, his corded hands resting on his knees. That's all. When we left the city, he hadn't said a single word, hadn't cracked a smile _or_ a frown.

We climbed into the hills, following a winding road that cut into the steep, pine-coated white slopes. It would be about an eight-hour rattle. I call my drives rattles because that what my old car does, constantly. Since we'd started late afternoon, I would drive through the night.

He still hadn't said anything. I couldn't concentrate. What was with him? If he said nothing I would have a nervous breakdown and we'd probably end up wrapped around a tree because my car likes to go fast. So I introduced myself like a little kid on the playground. "My name is Marie Kreutz. What's yours?"

He looked at me, a little startled. He pressed his lips together, quick, then, "Jason Bourne."

"Jason." I nodded too hard. _Keep talking, please, for the love of God!_ But he just returned to gazing out at the snow. I cursed silently and looked at the road ahead. Eight hours with this _Feldsteinmauer_, this stone wall. Not good. Not working.

"Have you been to Paris before?" I asked.

He shrugged without looking at me.

"Well I have," I said brightly. "My stepbrother lives there. Martin. He's the artist in the family."

He didn't even twitch. I had a fleeting urge to kick him. And then I was talking faster than a Formula 1 racecar, lips flapping, mind scrambling for anything I could say to keep away the oppressive silence and the scary questions that came with it. Even so, I could hear the voice inside my head berating me for letting this creature into my car. I was good and stuck.

Kilometers and kilometers later, my car had finally warmed up and I was still going strong. Everyone has always been constantly telling me to shut up. It was a wonder that Jason could even breathe.

"…which was fine with me because I was ready. 'Cause, you know, after six months in Amsterdam, you're not sure if you've been there twenty minutes or years, if you know what I mean. So I went and I took all the money I had. And I went in with friends and we took over this really cool surf shop outside Biarritz, um, which was right by the water, which was amazing…" I glanced at him and got the same view of his profile I'd been getting the whole time, "…it was, just amazing for about three months until it turned out that this, uh…jerk who had fronted us the lease was actually…shining everyone…on and…"

A motorbike whizzed past in the other direction.

Why do none of my stories have happy endings? I gazed at the massive, snow-laden pines, the sourness of the memory lingering in my mouth. I sighed, shifting in my seat. _Fine_. We would be quiet.

It's odd how loneliness can attack you at the most random times.

In the corner of my eye, I saw him turn and look at me. "And what?" he asked.

I stared at him; he stared back with the same hesitant inquisitiveness of before, his lips parted. "What do you mean, '_what_'?" I finally asked. "Listen to me. I've…I've been speed talking for about sixty kilometers now. I talk when I'm nervous – I mean, I-I talk like _this_ when I'm nervous…I'm gonna shut up now."

"No, don't do that."

I kind of wanted to kick him again.

"I haven't talked to anybody in a while," he added.

"Yeah, but _we're_ not talking. _I'm_ talking. Y-you've said, like ten words since we left Zürich."

"Well-listening to you, um, it's relaxing."

I was taken aback. He avoided my gaze, turning toward the small town we were passing through.

"I haven't slept in a while," he finally said, still without looking at me. Two cars went by. "And I've had this…headache. It's like a constant thing inside my head and it's just starting to…move to the background, so…" gazing at me now, brows raised earnestly, he said, "keep going. Really, if you want, please, keep talking."

Well. I looked at him, trying to understand, and saw a hint of a smile. Long dimples on either side of his mouth peeked out, like parentheses. _Oh_. I'd never seen a smile quite like that and couldn't help smiling back, just a little. "Okay, well," I gave a tiny laugh. Warmed, but still not comfortable. "What kind of music do you like?"

His smile stiffened and his eyes dropped. "Um…"

"What do you like? Hmm?" I turned on the radio and the hyper pulse of a techno song filtered through the speakers, along with a lot of static.

"No, you know what?" he raised a hand. "Never mind,"

"No, it's fine." _Keep smiling, Marie! _The radio rasped and whistled as I twisted the dial. "Tell me. What do you want to listen to?"

"I don't know," he said. He was staring straight ahead, the remains of the smile awkwardly crinkling about his eyes.

"Come on," I coaxed, "it's not that hard…what do you like? Tell me."

"I don't know," he said sharply, giving me a flat, end-of-discussion look.

The moment died and I turned off the radio, sitting back. I licked my lips. The hissing of the road filled the car, but not enough. Finally, I couldn't keep the scary thoughts back.

I remembered the flawless German that had poured from his lips and wondered. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him slowly raise a hand to his face, drawing his fingers over his eyebrows to the bridge of his nose.

"Who pays twenty thousand dollars for a ride to Paris?" I asked quietly.

Face turned away, his arm was propped on the window ledge. The backs of his first two fingers rested on his lips. He faced me, and then turned away.

"F---- it." His face was hard, his eyes distant and frustrated. "I can't remember anything that happened before two weeks ago." He looked at me as if he expected me to be alarmed.

When I was younger I believed everyone on earth was slowly going insane. Here was proof.

"Lucky you," I said.

"No, I'm serious." He waited, but I didn't turn from the road. "I don't know who I am; I don't know where I'm going – none of it."

"What, like," I chuckled, "amnesia?"

"Yes."

"_Amnesia_."

"Yes."

I took a deep breath. "Right."

_How much longer until Paris? _

We crested a hill and I could see the Jura Mountains in the distance, sharp and feral white.

_Too long._

* * *

Some hours later, we were still being quiet.

Perhaps he really was insane. At least he wasn't drooling or trying weird stuff. He was just sitting there, like a lump. A lump with a gross sweater. That was almost worse…

We climbed between the Jura and Vosges mountains, tracing the edge of Germany. My stomach reminded me that I had enough money for supper – enough money for a thousand suppers- and I asked Jason if he was hungry. He said yes, so I pulled into the next Aral petrol station, just outside of Möhlin.

I drove up under the blue-lit shelter and parked in front of the shop. It felt good to get out and stretch in the frigid air. Jason did not stretch when he got out; he simply closed his door and looked around with that same wide-eyed expression. He had his bag with him. His breath made clouds in the air, and the harsh blue light brought out the bruises under his eyes.

When he looked at me expectantly, I realized I'd been staring. I smiled awkwardly and we hurried inside.

There was a diner off to one side with tables along the windows, and a bar. Beyond that was a small arcade. White Christmas lights were draped over the windows. It was late and there weren't many people there. I went to the shop part of the place and had one of the hundred-dollar bills broken into twenties and tens. I was lucky they had dollars on hand. Lucky for the first time in a long, _long_ time.

We visited the bathrooms and then took a table against a window, settling across from each other. For a while we just sat, soaking up the warmth, listening to low conversations, the clink of forks on plates, and the crooning of Aimée Allen coming from the speakers on the walls.

Why couldn't I run into someone reasonable for once? What was I going to do with this man? What if he sat up all night, staring out the windscreen and saying nothing?

He spoke. "You don't believe me."

Startled, I looked up at him. At that moment, the waitress arrived. She smelled like cheap perfume. I ordered a sandwich and bottled water. Jason ordered the exact same thing, eyes self-consciously flicking toward me, but never landing on me.

The waitress scribbled on her pad and sauntered away.

I fiddled with the top button of my coat. Now Jason was watching me so intensely, I wondered if my face would melt. "I don't _disbelieve_ you," I finally said. "I just don't understand. How _could_ you get amnesia?"

"Don't know." He took a long, slow breath. "My first memory, the only memory I have, is waking up on a fishing boat in the Mediterranean with two bullet holes in my back." I stiffened. He shook his head. "The fishermen who saved my life said they found me floating in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of the night. They don't know who shot me. _I_ don't know who shot me….what could I have been _doing_?"

He stared into my eyes like I had the answer. I've never felt a gaze so intense, like a physical force against my skin. The blue light pouring over half his face was the same color of his irises. He looked pale and exhausted.

The waitress returned remarkably fast with our meals. I thanked her, and then Jason and I ate in helpless silence. He ate quickly and efficiently. As I was putting the last chunk of sandwich into my mouth, he was shaking his head at the window.

"They brought me into some Italian port. I took a train to Zürich. That night, I was sleeping in a park and two cops came and asked for my papers and I…" Disbelief creased his forehead. "…One guy put his nightstick in my face and my body just _moved_. The next minute, they were lying on the ground, unconscious and I had a-a gun in my hand. One of their guns. Pointed at them. Like I was going to shoot."

I had been about to take a drink. But now I just twisted the cap tight on my bottle and leaned back in my chair, pulling my scarf up under my lips. "So you know how to defend yourself," I reasoned. "There's nothing wrong with that."

He looked at me like I'd spoken in Martian. "I was in Zürich because the doctor on the fishing boat found a little piece of plastic in my hip. When you press it, it projects a bank account number on the wall." He leaned forward. "I went into the bank. I wrote that number down. They took me into a little room, gave me a safety deposit box that had a gun in it. And money. And six passports."

He pulled the red bag open. Inside, I saw piles of currency from a multiple countries. I swallowed and shook my head.

"I'm not making this up. These," he pulled out a handful of little booklets, "are real." He shuffled them and planted them in front of me.

I looked down at the top one. _PASSPORT- United States of America._ Beneath it were more passports for other countries, each with a different man's name. Paul Kay…John Michael Kane…something Levpon… I sat up. "Okay."

"Who has a safety deposit box full of…" he straightened, gesturing confusedly, "money and six passports and a gun?"

I looked out at the cars whizzing by, wishing he wouldn't ask.

He kept going. "Who has a…bank account number in their _hip?_" He leaned back, pulling his hands toward himself. " I come in _here_, and the first thing I'm doing is I'm catching the sightlines and looking for an exit."

"I see the exit sign, too," I glanced at it; "I'm not worried." He looked away. "I mean," I tried again, "you were shot. People do all kinds of weird and amazing stuff when they're scared."

I don't think he heard a word; he was too busy scanning the room. I watched him watch everything else with his elbows on the table and his hands together near his chin.

Then he folded his arms, leaning toward me. "I can tell you the license plate numbers of all six cars outside. I can tell you that our waitress is left-handed and the guy sitting up at the counter weighs two hundred and fifteen pounds and knows how to handle himself."

_Scheiße._ I stared at him.

"I know that the best place to look for a gun is the cab of the gray truck outside. And at this altitude, I can run flat out for a half-mile before my hands start shaking." He bit his lower lip slowly. "Now why would I know that?" With a short sigh, he glanced out the window. "How can I know that and not know who I am?"

My mind was a blank. My lips wanted to form words, but I didn't have any.

Jason averted his eyes. Then he grabbed the passports and shoved them back into the bag, tugging it shut.

I paid numbly and we left.

**Thanks for reading! Any thoughts you have are welcome. :)**


	4. Very New Territory

**A/N:** Many thanks to PropernameSurname, Traveler of Worlds, Fred, Manwathiel, Clouded Horizon, like frogs in your soup, and r for your reviews! They mean so much! I am sorry it's been so long since I updated!

* * *

**Very New Territory**

Night fell just before we crossed into France.

My heart thudded out a beat of dread. Jason, with his clear blue eyes and disarming boy's face, was dangerous.

_I had a-a gun in my hand. One of their guns. Pointed at them. Like I was going to shoot._

I tried to keep my breathing steady as we plunged down autoroute 36. I had enough euros for the tolls….I tried not to think too hard. _Just get him to Paris and you can forget any of this ever happened._

I cracked the windows just in case, but I didn't get sleepy. Jason, however, was awake one minute and the next he was sound asleep, his forehead against the foggy window.

This makes me sound stupid, but a hot pulse went through me when I first saw his sleeping face. I think I was shocked to see his freakishly alert eyes shut, his brow loosened, and his lips obliviously parted. His nose was cute. Sort of turned up at the end. His brows were funny and yet intense, the way the right one curved up higher than the left. His dark hair almost formed a cowlick in the back.

With his crew cut, he looked for the entire world like a lost little boy, except his shoulders were too thick and his neck too solid. That baggy sweater with its tacky zipper could not hide how toned he was. And he had this way of standing, this way of centering his weight…

…_my body just moved. The next minute, they were lying on the ground, unconscious and I had a-a gun in my hand._

Lights were placed every so often along this lonely stretch of A36. Every time the light whirled in through the windscreen I turned and looked at Jason Bourne and tried to figure what I thought of him. Things don't usually go well when Marie Kreutz tries to think, but I didn't care.

I believed his story now. Something crazy had happened to him. He himself was crazy, and yet not. Was he some experiment by an evil doctor? Something with a government, perhaps…? I didn't let myself think further than that; it was too scary.

He was so shattered. Shot in the back. Did he hurt? He was blindly feeling his way back into a world he never actually left. Frightening parts of himself were leaping out, like when he beat up those cops. I swore silently. If that were me, I'd be terrified of myself. What would I do if my body just took over like that? …Lock myself in a closet.

And those passports…he had six names. That was the worst and made me go blank for a while. I wanted to throw them away; get rid of their confusion, their illegal presence.

I understood now why Jason was so alert, so focused on taking in everything and keeping _steady_. He didn't know when a ghost from the blank space in his memory would jump out. He was scared. Really, really scared.

It was two-thirty am and I was low on petrol. A stop at a BP fixed that. I enjoyed standing in the cold. It made it easier to think. Not that this helped. As I got onto A6, our final autoroute, a green sign glowed off to the right:

_Paris---103 _

_Lille----350_.

* * *

4:30am.

We'd left the mountains behind. Now it was rolling farmland – I could smell it. Though it was winter here, too, it would be warmer than Zürich. Kinder.

I glanced at Jason again. Stay long enough with someone, and you begin to trust them. You begin to warm to them. It's not a decision - you can't help yourself. Jason Bourne was no longer just my passenger.

But I wanted him to get out of my life before something terrible happened! What if he turned on me? What if I was the person who lost when his body '_just moved_'?

I sighed softly, hoping everything would be all right for him when we arrived. At the same time, I doubted things would ever be all right for the silent man whose blue eyes were burned into my mind.

So I watched for potholes and dips in the road, determined not to disturb him. The steadiness of the ride was one thing I could control, and by God, if he trusted me well enough to sleep in my car, he would sleep well.

* * *

I was glad to return to Paris. It is more welcoming than Zürich, like a huge, soft woman in a multicolored dress who gives you a hug whenever she sees you.

I found my way to _La Rive Gauche_, the left side of the Seine, and the home of the artists, writers, and philosophers. Also the home of these wonderful little crepe shops, of you were wondering. I drove along the _Quai de la Tournelle_, right above the Seine, the cathedral Notre Dame looming just ahead in the center of the river.

The sunrise was muted by clouds, softening the lines of the leafless trees. I parked on the quay just below the road, twenty feet from the water. I removed the keys from the ignition and sighed as my car fell silent.

I looked at Jason, biting my lips uncertainly. He was asleep as ever, head now tilted back against the headrest. His mouth was hanging open.

I got out, being sure to lock the doors. _Scheiße, _it was cold. But I needed to wake up.

Martin my stepbrother lived in this part of Paris. On a weird, sleep-deprived impulse, I pulled out my map and set it on the bonnet, trying to find his street on it. Then I realized I was really hungry. It felt very odd. As I marched off in search of crepes, I shook my head to clear it. I would drop Jason off and come back to Martin; stay a few days in his cluttered home and decide what to do. With all this money, I could turn things around. I could do anything. _Anything_.

A brisk walk later, I had bought and gobbled up my crepe and was carrying Jason's down a long flight of stone steps to the quay. I felt so much more like my self, almost happy. When I came up to my car and saw Jason hadn't moved an inch, I hesitated, peering in at him.

If I let him sleep, would he sleep for days? He'd looked like he needed it. I tucked my hair behind my ear as the frightened itch spoke up again – I needed to get him out of my life.

So I knocked on the window. "Hey-"

He jerked forward, eyes snapping open and fastening on the red bag between his legs as he reflexively clutched it. Then he looked up at me. I stepped back and he opened the door.

"I slept," he said, glancing toward Notre Dame. He heaved himself out of the seat. "Can't believe it."

"Well, you were tired."

He gave an incredulous chuckle. "I haven't slept."

"Oh, here." I held out the crepe and he took it as he slammed the door. "For twenty thousand, I like to throw in breakfast."

He took in my small smile with a glance. Then he resumed surveying his surroundings. "Did you stop for gas?"

I huffed in the cold, folding my arms tightly around my middle. "You were pretty out of it."

"Wow," he said through a mouthful.

I stretched onto my tiptoes, feeling my calves clench. Gazing out over the river, I asked, "So. Do you think there's, like, a family waiting for you?"

He froze mid-chew. His brow was all wrinkled again, like a basset hound's. "I'dnknow," he mumbled, and looked at his hands. "I've thought about it."

The way he briefly met my eyes and then looked away made something clench inside my chest.

* * *

"Is that it?"

I was driving through an upscale part of the left bank, a narrow street called _Rue du Jardin_. Elegant apartment buildings rose on either side. Trees lined the road, and it was busy, with little shops beneath the apartments and people strolling the sidewalks. Not a place where I would be able to live, ever.

To the right was an apartment building with carvings and arches and delicate little fences across the windows.

"One-o-four," Jason said, "yeah that's the...that's the address – no, no, keep going, keep going," he added when I began to pull over.

'"Okay. Where?"

"Jus-just, uh, take a left," he pointed. "Pull in over here."

I made a u-turn into a tiny parking place sectioned off by a curb and a tree. I almost ran over this pigeon, but didn't notice until it flew up in front of me. A little shaken, I pulled forward until we were opposite 104, turned off the ignition, and pulled on the parking break.

Jason was twisted around in his seat, scanning the street.

"So, this is it, right?" I asked, turning toward him.

He had that look again. Forehead wrinkled, lips parted in a loss for words, his blue eyes so wide. "Yeah, I guess." He glanced out the back window.

My throat was tightening. _Stupid_. I looked into my lap, brushing my hair behind my ear.

"I don't recognize any of this," he said, more to himself than to me. But I heard. How could I leave him when he had no one? How could I stay?

"Okay, you should go," I said thickly, unable to look at him and the bleakness in his eyes. I cursed myself. I'd agreed to give him the _verdammt_ ride. I'd done it. Now I needed to, just… _stop_ before I proved myself a fool yet again.

He didn't answer. Was he wishing I would stay with him?

"Jason?" I said firmly, steeling myself and facing him.

He met my eyes inquisitively, biting his lower lip. Then, "Oh, god. Money. Right."

I watched him dive into the bag, feeling the hope that had bloomed leak away. "Yeah." I brushed my nose.

"Here you go."

I took the money he handed me and managed to smile. "_Danke_. Okay."

"Thanks for the ride," he said flatly, and then I heard the door handle turn. He was getting out.

How brave he was.

I turned, refusing to take this parting quietly. "Any time."

He sank back into the seat, leaving the door half-open. I smiled tightly, tucking my hair behind my ear. He looked down thoughtfully, slowly.

"Well," he said quietly, "you could come up, I mean, you can…um, or you could wait here. I…I can go check it out, but you could…wait…"

_Hold strong_. "Ah, no, no-"

"You could wait-"

"No, no…" I tucked my hair behind my ear, "with you, you would probably just forget about me if I…stayed. Here."

He stared at me. My neck immediately felt hot and I looked away, brushing my hair back again.

"How could I forget about you?" he asked incredulously. "You're the only person I know."

_He needed me._

I felt my mouth hanging open. Then suddenly I was grinning. "Oh yeah…" I chuffed lightly, "that's true, yeah."

He gave a half-smile. I realized I now had the chance to work on getting a real smile from him. The world brightened exponentially.

We got out and crossed the wet street. The door to the building was a polite mixture of sturdiness and decoration, thick metal elegantly twisted into a barrier backed by glass. In the column next to the door was a directory with five names on white. There were silver buttons next to each one.

The fourth-floor name was BOURNE. Jason slowly pushed the button next to his name and somewhere something buzzed, but there was no answer. He looked in through the door, and then watched the directory.

He pushed the button again and waited, staring at it with a closed expression. Had he forgotten how these things work?

"I guess you're not home," I hinted.

He gave me a self-conscious glance, and then looked the door over. He grabbed the metal grating and rattled it. Suddenly, inside, a squat, older woman with glasses had burst out into the hallway and was rushing toward us.

"_Monsieur Bourne, j'arrive_!" she exclaimed. She pulled the door open. "_Monsieur Bourne, je me demandais – je te n'ai pas vu!_"

The French poured from her mouth; I didn't catch much. My French is awful. Heart in my throat, I watched Jason. Did he understand?

"_Uh, je suis la_," he said easily.

Well I would just go and eat my windscreen. He speaks English _and_ German _and_ French.

She glanced at me and gave him a severe look over her glasses, making an inquiring noise.

"_Je pense que j'ai oublié ma clé_," he added sheepishly.

She beamed at him, bouncing her shoulders in a dismissive motion. "_Entrez._" She pulled the door wide.

We went to her office, a neat little room with potted plants crowding the windows. She gave him a replacement key and then asked him a question. I believe she asked if he needed anything else, because he said no. With another glowing smile at him, she ushered us back into the hall and returned to her office. She never glanced at me.

I am used to being made invisible by other people's disapproval and felt fine as I climbed a white, curling staircase carpeted down the middle in plush red. The railings were wood and metalwork, and the windows we passed were pieces of art. I felt out of place.

Jason took the stairs like a robot, never slowing or speeding, his head swiveling at each landing. We reached the fourth floor and went left to a wood door. I nervously watched him to see if _he_ looked nervous, but he just looked preoccupied as he inserted the large key in the lock and turned it.

Mechanisms clunked and he opened the door.

**Thanks for reading!! :)**


	5. Zero Hour

**A/N: **Thank you to r, Traveler of Worlds, s23hang, Marilyn x. Maelwys, and lazaefair for your reviews! You all rock! I apologize for not updating in such a long time!

* * *

**Zero Hour**

It was an airy entrance, creamy white, with crown moldings under every ledge. Sophisticated. Uncomfortably sanitized-looking. Did the landlady come in and dust every day?

Jason looked around and then strode off through the nearest doorway. I shut the door. Mmm, this place smelled of money. "Hello?" Hugging myself, I followed Jason, peering into the room. It was a sort of office-living room, with shelving, a desk, and a bank of floor to ceiling windows flanked by sheer white curtains. Aha. There were some potted plants sitting on the wood floor in the sunlight. The landlady probably watered them.

I turned and moved toward the next room, hearing Jason drop his keys on the desk.

This was a bedroom with a king-sized bed, more tall windows, and weightlifting equipment. Jason walked up beside me.

"Are you sure this is all yours?" I asked, dazed.

"I guess." He passed me and entered the bedroom, lifting up something on the nightstand. I followed, pulling my bag off, trying to take it all in.

Jason Bourne was _rich_. Not that this was news; he had, after all, nearly bruised my nose twenty thousand dollars in cash. But still. My mouth was dry.

He walked out. I slowly opened a door and found his closet. A neat row of shirts interspersed with a few suits presented itself to me. He did live here. It was going to be okay.

I crept back through the flat and found him in the office, flipping through a book.

"Any clues?" I asked.

"I think I'm in the shipping business." His voice echoed a little on the high ceiling.

"So it's all coming back, huh?" I smiled.

He flipped to the end of the book and shut it. There was a slump to his shoulders as he studied the other books on the shelf.

Oops. I quickly changed the subject. "Do you mind if I…use the bathroom?"

He turned, surprised. "Uh, sure." He cracked a tiny smile.

"Okay." I smiled back and hurried down the hall, tearing off my jacket. The bathroom was connected to the bedroom. It was clean and open, with a freestanding tub and neat wood counters. I got a glimpse of myself in the small mirror above the sink and winced. I was lucky he'd asked me to come up – I looked like an ogress. My mouth tasted like I'd been eating garbage.

I turned the tub faucet on high, flicking my fingers in the water. Cold. No matter. I pulled a toothbrush and toothpaste from my bag and got to work brushing my teeth, brushing with one hand while pulling my boots off with the other.

The counter was clear except for antibacterial hand soap. The hand towel was green, as was the single set of towels hanging near the tub. I touched them; they were dry. There were no rugs on the cool tile.

I opened his medicine cabinet and poked around. Hand cream. Ibuprophen. Advil. Extra razor blades. Nothing uncommon.

I rinsed out my mouth and stuck my blue toothbrush in the metal rack under the mirror. I admired it there. Then I began to pull the pins from my hair, disliking the way my hair didn't fall down. It was too greasy. I yanked the last pin free and dug out my cheap bottle of shampoo/body wash.

Did he have shampoo?

Yes, a bottle of Provence Sante shampoo and body wash. Like mine, but more expensive. The height of efficiency. If I'd doubted this was Jason's bathroom before, I didn't any more.

I tested the water. It was as icy as when I'd turned it on.

"Um, Jason," I called, "there's no hot water. It's freezing."

His voice floated back. "A-I'll go, uh…try the water in the kitchen. Why don't you just stay in the bathroom," his voice faded; he was moving around; "I'll-I'll see if I can…get it hot."

The water gushing from the faucet lessened. He'd turned on the kitchen water. Faintly, I heard him speak. "Yeah, it's really cold in here, too."

I stopped unfastening the back of my skirt and tested the water again. Still cold. I flicked the faucet off, shaking my hands. I wanted to be able to hear him. I marched out of the bathroom, holding my skirt closed in back. "The water is still cold-"

He was coming toward me. His nasty sweater was gone, revealing a loose, long-sleeved shirt with dark stripes. He stopped just shy of the kitchen doorway and leaned on the doorjamb. "Yeah, it's cold in the, uh, kitchen, too. I got it…running though." He met my eyes, pressing his lips together regretfully.

I nodded and zipped my skirt back up.

"So…" He moved through the doorway, brushing the corner of his eye, and faced me. His lips were pressed together again, but this time the expression was awkward, like he was waiting for something.

"What?" I looked at him sideways, unable to stop grinning. I'd never found awkwardness so endearing.

"Nothing." He shook his head, his crooked smile betrayed by an odd ferocity in his eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"Mm-hmm," he said lightly. "Yeah."

Maybe he really was a psychopath. Maybe this was the part where he did something bad to me. I tried to smile but my cheeks felt plastic.

He swung his eyes to the right and his entire form went quiet, his smile disappearing. I uneasily followed his gaze, leaning forward. There was a short corridor leading to the bedroom.

Suddenly, Jason began walking toward the frosted window at the end of the corridor.

"What is it?" I asked. "Is something wrong?"

Jason looked over his shoulder at me. The minute he stopped watching, the world tried to kill him. The window shattered and a man in black swung in on a cable, a huge gun blasting from one hand. A deafening _rat-atatatatat_ sounded above the clinking glass and bullets whizzed past me. I whisked myself back around the corner, only realizing I'd done so once I was pressed back against the wall.

A pause. Then the gun went off again and I couldn't breathe, picturing Jason riddled with holes, dying, leaving me along to face the man who had swung straight through a window. I threw myself further back as bullets hit the ceiling, punching a line back toward the window. Still the glass crinkled. A grunt. Then more gunshots.

And then, the clacking of a hammer on an empty magazine. Something hit something; someone grunted; the glass clinked; someone growled. Panic roaring through me, I peered out and saw Jason rolling on a bed of glass with his attacker, a man with a crazy head of blond hair.

Jason was _alive!_

His elbow slammed into the man's face, stunning him. Jason hit the gun away. The man's arms curled around Jason's neck in a choke hold and he bent, biting at Jason's ear. Jason curled and then his knee landed in the man's face. In a cacophony of grunts and the raw _smack_ of skin on skin, Jason forced the man back. They…_just moved_. Hitting, blocking, twisting. Every motion was deadly crisp.

I had no coherent thoughts, but I _knew_. This guy was insanely trained. And Jason, the man who had slept trustingly in my car, was meeting him blow-for-blow.

The assassin hauled off a roundhouse kick that caught Jason in the face and sent him flying down the hall. He slid past me on his back. Instinctively I stepped toward him, but his attacker was coming right after. He looked me in the eyes as he passed. My blood froze at the feral expression on his face: it was my death sentence.

Jason was already on his feet. They stalked toward each other like bulls, shoulders hunched, fists balled. The instant the other was in reach, those rock-hard fists were flying. I couldn't tell if any blows landed in the tangle of flying arms and ducking, twisting bodies. The harsh noises resounded through the flat.

Jason ducked, _kicked_ the back of the assassin's thigh, _kicked_, hit the man in the back of the head. He fell on his face. Jason's foot hit him again and he rolled away, sitting up with a terrible glare. Two bloody stripes marked his left cheek. With a metallic _chink_, a small blade flipped up between the first and second fingers of the assassin's right hand.

"Jason!" I shrieked, reaching out. They engaged again and I watched helplessly, heart in my throat. Again and again the assassin stabbed and Jason blocked him every time, at last catching his arm and twisting. The man withdrew slashing, forcing Jason to back into the study.

I could hear the knife singing over their fight. My feet dragged me after. They feinted, stabbed, ducked, dragged, and then Jason had the assassin bent in half, hand behind his back. Teeth bared, Jason was twisting the assassin's wrist, trying to force him to drop the knife. The killer struck out at him once. Again. Jason blocked with his elbow.

The impacts were horrendous. Why weren't bones breaking?

The assassin bucked Jason off and Jason landed on his back. Before the man could attack Jason's feet hit him in the face, one right after the other. The assassin stumbled over a coffee table and landed on a couch.

Like a spider, Jason propelled himself to his feet and backed away, his sweat-sheened face intent. The assassin peeled himself off the couch and they stared at each other. The assassin's glare was vicious, boiling. Jason's expression was impassive, cold.

Jason's legs hit the desk. His hand scrabbled behind him, in the pile of money there.

What, was he going to give his attacker paper cuts?

No. Jason was going to die.

I was going to puke.

The attacker hurtled across the room, throwing a mind-shattering kick at Jason. With one angry slap, Jason deflected it, forcing the assassin to stop in his tracks. Exchanging blows, they moved, Jason forcing the assassin back.

Then something glinted in Jason's hand and the man gave a surprised grunt. He fell backwards and Jason followed with fluid deliberation.

My eyes fastened on Jason's left fist where something glinted. A pen jutted toward the floor, ready to stab. It was _already dripping blood_.

The assassin peeled himself off the floor.

Jason circled, predatory.

Suddenly, tingling with horror, I knew who was going to lose this fight.

The attacker rallied, kicking. Jason deflected him again, ducked under his leg, and stabbed again and again, finally grabbing the man's arm and jamming the pen straight down between his knuckles. The wet ripping sound made me gag.

The blade landed on the floor.

Jason kicked the killer in the chest. With a muted cry, he fell backwards over the desk. He made a choking noise as the furniture thundered around him.

I couldn't tear my eyes from the man I'd brought to Paris. Jason's face was lowered, focused, his hands ready. The assassin hauled himself to his feet with an awful noise. Dark dots were all over his arms and chest. Blood streaked his cheek. Head lowered in massive concentration, he wrinkled his nose and pulled the pen right out of his hand.

Shudders tore over my entire frame.

Then he was moving, faster than ever. But he was running in the wrong direction: toward Jason Bourne. Jason deflected a blow and then stomp-kicked on the assassin's calf. With a crunch, the man's calf bent outwards. Jason was still moving, pulling the killer's arm around over his shoulders. A brutal yank, another crunch. The man's arm bent in the wrong direction. His eyes were wide now; he let Jason throw him to the floor and lay there, broken.

I felt like I was floating. Stuff in my stomach was truly boiling up toward my mouth. Jason knelt beside his attacker and ripped off his bag. Suddenly, the bag was flying straight at me. "Open that," he barked; "tell me what's inside."

I kept trying to speak, but I couldn't. The bag tumbled upside down and stuff fell out. Two papers came last.

"Who are you?" Jason demanded.

I looked up. Jason had one hand around the man's throat; the other clutched his hair. The assassin didn't answer, just moved a little. Jason slammed his head against the floor. "_Who are you_?"

The papers were in my hand and I was choking on shock. A long ways away, Jason was asking the same question, except in different languages. Some I hadn't even heard before.

I was staring at Jason's picture, at a dozen of his pictures. All different. There was a picture of him in the US Embassy. Someone was watching him!

Then I looked at the second paper and my own face stared back at me.

The room spun; I sank to my knees. Pictures of me with all the hairstyles I'd ever had. Pictures of _me_ from the US Embassy, yesterday. "He's got my picture!"

Jason looked at me. "All right-" he lifted a hand "-hang on-"

"This is Zürich, yesterday!" I was on my feet, rushing toward them though Jason was telling me to stay back. "Where did you get this?" I shoved the paper at the assassin's glazed eyes. "_How did you get my picture_?"

Jason grabbed my arm. "Marie-" he pulled me up and away.

"Where did you-" I yanked my arm free and rushed back, "Where did you get this from?"

Jason's arms wrapped around my waist from behind, hauling me back, carrying me toward the doorway as I fought him. His deadly voice cut through my panic. "I'll do this!" He set me down, eyes glaring. "You stay there!"

"You-"

He raised a hand, pointed at me. There was blood on his fingertips. "_Stay there!_"

"He-" behind Jason, the assassin was on his feet. Jason turned and the killer finally ran in the right direction: straight for the nearest exit.

The windows.

He blasted through the glass and threw himself over the railing. A second later, tires screeched and someone on the street gave a terrible scream. Jason jogged to the window and looked out at the street.

More screams, more people seeing what Jason, the man I had helped, had done… but why – it didn't make sense-

Jason just turned away and checked his watch. Then he rushed to the desk and began stuffing the money and passports into that cursed red bag. "Where're your shoes? Get your shoes."

"Sure, yeah, sure," I babbled. "Uh, he went out the window; why would someone do that?"

"We can't stay here. It's not safe." He piled more into the bag. "Look, I can get us out of here, but we gotta to go now. We gotta go right now." He hurried to the closet.

I shut my eyes, knees weak.

"Okay, look, uh…" he walked past with a heavy brown coat, breathless, "you could wait. You could wait for the cops; it's okay. You just wait for them to get here. But I can't. I gotta go." Coat on now, he slung the bag over his shoulder and looked at me. "Marie?

Go with him? Stay for the cops? I'd seen the end of my life in that attacker's eyes. I'd seen the end of my life in…

"Marie?"

The next thing I knew he was putting my jacket on me. He practically carried me out the door and down the stairs. Around. Around. Around. The red carpet like blood beneath our feet.

I couldn't even feel mine.

We came around the last curve and I saw the landlady who had beamed at Jason sitting on a little bench in a hallway. She was gazing up to the side. Where were her glasses?

There was a hole in the middle of her forehead and a shiny red line was squiggling down her nose-

I don't know what sound I made. Maybe I screamed. But Jason's voice was in my ear, brusque. "Quiet. Be quiet." He pulled forward; I didn't know where we were going. The bile that had been edging up my throat burst out of my mouth, bitter, mind-numbing. It splattered on the floor and Jason dragged me right through it.

He opened those metal doors and we burst into the street, the sirens wailing loud. Concerned chatter drew my eyes to the right and I saw the assassin lying facedown in a sprinkling of glass, his legs on the sidewalk and his torso in the street. Beneath his head was a pool of-

"Don't look," Jason ordered, his hand on my shoulder pulling me around. My hair flew into my face. Voices whirled by, and the roar of cars. The next thing I knew Jason was pulling my car door open and pushing me into the passenger seat.

He was taking out my keys and dropping my bag into my lap. He was in the driver's seat, starting my car, driving my car. Driving my car through Paris in the morning after stabbing and breaking a man.

A real, living man.

There are…

No…

Words.


End file.
